New Novel Serial Killer Story

THE DOOM MURDERS

Brian O’Hare

The right of Brian O’Hare to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act. 1998

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

A Doom is a painting of the Last Judgment. The word ‘Doom’ in the context of Last Judgement paintings is simply a description of the painting. It does not mean disaster, or eternal damnation; it is the ‘time of trial’, the moment when the soul, on the brink of eternity, is to discover the destiny that awaits it. Dooms were frequently found in medieval churches dating from around the 12th to 16th centuries, although they were virtually standard in churches from much earlier than that. They were used to remind medieval Christians of the Afterlife and Judgment Day, and to help keep them constantly aware of the awesome fate that can result from sinning by showing in graphic detail the dramatic difference between Heaven and Hell.

Although there are many different versions, the Doom format stays broadly the same. The Risen Christ, often showing the Wounds of the Crucifixion, always presides, usually at the centre of the painting. On the left side of a Doom painting (that is, on Christ's right hand) is Heaven, whilst on the right side of the painting is Hell. Saved souls may appear waiting in a queue to be met by St. Peter before passing into Heaven beyond. Conversely, the damned are depicted being thrown into the bowels of Hell where endless pain and suffering await them.

One very famous ‘doom’ was painted by Dutch master, Rogier van der Weyden, some time in the early 1500s. It was originally designed as a backpiece for an altar and is thus quite large, something over eighteen feet in length. It now hangs in a museum in France. It was this Last Judgement that ‘inspired’ the killer in The Doom Murders. Anyone interested in learning more about van der Weyden’s masterpiece can easily access information about it on the internet

ONE

DCI Jim Sheehan studied the mutilated corpse. “Something about the body doesn’t seem right,” he muttered.

DS Kevin Doyle looked at him askance. His inscrutable face almost registered surprise. “It’s naked, sir!” he said. “The tongue is pulled some three inches out of its mouth. It’s lying sprawled on the floor on its back. It’s got knife wounds all over the place. Why wouldn’t it look not right?”

The chief inspector stared again at the dead body of the Most Reverend Charles Loughran, until today Bishop of the Diocese of Down and Connor. His sergeant was right, of course. This was a brutal murder. The wounds had been inflicted with considerable ferocity but, while there was plenty of blood, it was clear that the victim’s clothes had been removed post-mortem. The bloodied garments were lying in an untidy heap against a far wall, slung there as if to distance them as far as possible from the body. But how did the bishop finish up lying on the floor on his back, his right knee bent, twisted almost, and tucked under his left leg, his hands stretched backwards above his head? Did he simply fall like that after the killer had undressed him or had he been posed like that? And the tongue? How did that happen?

Dr. Richard Campbell, Deputy State Forensic Pathologist, a stout man, balding, was kneeling by the body. He had rolled it half-over to examine the back and sides, feeling around the back of the head for bruising or lacerations. Returning the body to its original position, he struggled to his feet, almost losing his balance. He righted himself, breathing rather more heavily than he should. He flicked a glance at Sheehan’s trim, efficient shape as he peeled off his latex gloves and said, somewhat testily, “I really am going to have to start going to the gym.”

The corners of Sheehan’s lips twitched but he simply said, “Well, what’s the story?”

“I won’t be sure until I see the body back in the mortuary but I’d say the knife wounds did it.”

“Y’ think!” It wasn’t a question.

“Come on now, Jim. I’ve learned a long time ago not to jump at the obvious. But this time…yes, I think!”

“Any other injuries? Signs of a struggle?”

“None that I can see. The infra-red photos might show some latent bruising but I can’t see anything at the moment.”

“No trauma to the head anywhere?”

“No.”

“He’s a big man…gave in without much of a struggle, did he not? How did the killer overcome him so easily?”

“Hard to say right now…”

“Ah, come on, Dick. You can hazard some sort of a guess. It’ll be at least a couple of weeks before I see your report.”

“Well, don’t hold me to anything, the autopsy could change things entirely, but I’d say the first blow from the knife probably came as a surprise. If it didn’t kill him right away, it certainly would have immobilized him.”

“Pretty lucky, what? I mean, the heart is well protected by the sternum and the ribs…”

The doctor nodded but said, “Might have been more than luck. There’s a severe wound in the middle…” He pointed. “There…just at the top of the abdomen. Looks like it might have done the trick. If the blade was aimed at just the right angle, it could have hit the heart immediately. If you knew what you were doing, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”

“Medical knowledge?”

“Maybe…or combat training, perhaps.”

“Time of death?”

“Hmm…” The pathologist consulted his penciled notes. “…liver temperature relative to room temperature, rigor mortis well started…one and half degrees an hour…” He muttered some figures, brows furrowed as he did some mental calculations, and said, “I might have to change my mind about this but I’d guess roughly between ten pm yesterday and four o’clock this morning.” He clicked shut his brief case and looked at his watch. ‘Nearly ten o’clock and I haven’t opened the office yet. I’m outta here.”

“What about the tongue? How did it get like that?”

“Oh, it was obviously pulled out deliberately. Judging by the bruises I’d guess a pair of pliers.”

“Why?”

The pathologist shrugged. “Absolutely no idea.”

“Okay! I might call in to see you in a day or so…”

“Ah, come on, Jim. I’m already up to my eyes. Any suspicious deaths near the Royal always have me doing a Force Medical Officer’s work as well as my own. Gimme a few days.”

“I know, Dick, but this was a bishop….”

“All right! All right! Uh…this is Thursday…call into the mortuary of the Royal Victoria sometime next week. I might have something.”

As he left the room, Sheehan called after him, “Thanks, Dick.” He turned his eyes once more to the crime scene, focusing particularly on the crime scene unit, dressed in tyvek white hooded coveralls and facemasks, as were he and Doyle. Some officers were dusting doors and windows for fingerprints, some crawling on the floor searching for fibres or any small item that might later prove significant. He spoke to one of the officers on the floor.

“Anything?”

The man shook his head, “Nothing, sir!”

“Nothing?” Sheehan said.

The man shrugged. “Apart from the blood spatter, sir, clean as a whistle. Even the ordinary stuff you’d expect to be lying around…nothing.”

Sheehan turned to the man dusting the edges of the door. “Fingerprints?”

Again a laconic shrug. “Some…but they’re not fresh. I’d guess the victim’s…maybe some staff.”

“Bloody hell!” He turned to the photographer who had been flashing for several minutes. “Okay! That’ll do.” He glanced at his sergeant who was standing above the body. Doyle was a large man, early fifties, a confirmed bachelor like himself. Normally dressed in a dark sports jacket, he looked huge and awkward in the voluminous biohazard coveralls. Awkward? Strange how misleading impressions can be! Nobody was more effective or more reliable in a tight corner than Doyle. But right now he was being neither effective nor reliable. He was just standing there, staring down at the corpse. “What are you doing, Doyle?” he called to the sergeant.

Doyle seemed nonplussed. “Ah…uh…saying a wee prayer for his immortal soul.”

Sheehan felt a stab of guilt. Concern for the victim’s eternal destination had not brushed, even remotely, against the fringes of his own mind. Doyle, of course, was probably still thinking about his father. He had asked for a week off a couple of months before to bury him. Somewhere abroad. His parents had moved abroad after they retired. But where? Who knew? Somewhere in Europe, probably. Doyle was not profligate with information.

Sheehan dismissed his feelings of guilt and said, “Aye, right! There’s time enough for his immortal soul. Right now we have to try and find out what’s happened to his mortal body. Go and find a sheet somewhere and cover him up. That’s no way for a bishop to be lying.”

He stared around the crime scene. He was in a large, well-appointed sitting room, or study perhaps, leather armchairs, bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a heavy, polished oak desk facing away from the window, a fireplace with the embers of the previous evening’s fire still warm. A large crucifix hung on the wall over the fireplace. Sheehan’s eyes rested on it before flicking guiltily away. His Catholicism, unlike Doyle’s, had lapsed some years before but he still had trouble confronting the images of his childhood faith.

His eyes ranged the room once more. Everything seemed normal, in place. Nothing to indicate a struggle. No forensics. No weapon. This perp seems to know what he’s doing. His eyes strayed back to the body. “Who would want to kill a bishop?” he muttered.

Doyle had just re-entered the room with a sheet from the forensics van. “An atheist?”

Sheehan gave him a withering glance. “Aye, right! How did the perp get in?”

“Don’t know,” Doyle said. “Doors all locked. Windows securely fastened. No sign of a break-in. Maybe the victim knew the killer and let him in?”

Sheehan didn’t respond. He was looking at the CSI officer who was fingerprinting the desk. The man was focused on something at the side of the desk, staring at it, rubbing it gently with his thumb. Sheehan strode over to him. “Found something?”

The officer made a ‘maybe-maybe not’ waggle with his right hand and pointed to some small scratches on the side of the desk. “There’s a letter and some numbers here. They feel fresh, scraped in with a pin….or something with a sharp point.”

Sheehan, and Doyle who had followed his boss, peered over the investigator’s shoulder. Sheehan said, “Can you make them out?”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied. “It’s a capital E followed by some numbers…3… 4...1…0.”

“Have you any idea what they mean?” Sheehan asked.

“Not a clue…probably nothing.”

“Maybe is an auctioneer’s lot number,” Doyle suggested.
“Bit vandalistic that…on that lovely desk,” Sheehan mused. “They usually put wee stickers on their lots.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “Photograph the numbers anyway. And sergeant, just to be sure, check out where the desk came from.”

The CSI officer stood up and began packing up his gear. The other members of the unit were doing the same.

“You guys finished?” Sheehan said.

The officers nodded.

“Okay, Doyle,” Sheehan said. “Have the body removed.” He began to struggle out of his own coveralls, having trouble, as always, with the zip. “Hate these bloody things,” he muttered. He handed the coveralls to Doyle who had just divested himself of his own. “Here! Get rid of these.” He looked at his watch. “After ten! Most of the staff will be in by now, I expect. Round them up! Maybe one of them can throw some light on this. I’ll start with the woman who found the body.”

TWO

When Doyle returned with Mrs. Bell, Sheehan was already seated behind the bishop’s desk. Mrs. Bell, a woman in her late fifties, looked terrified. Naturally small in stature, she was reduced to waiflike proportions beside Doyle’s substantial bulk. Doyle stood to one side and pulled out a pen and notebook. Sheehan examined the woman. Her hair was pulled severely back and fastened with a piece of elastic band and her face bore the pinched, defeated look of one who had known little in the way of joy in her life and far too much in the way of hardship. Her hands were clasped in front of her abdomen, trembling, as she stood at the door waiting for instructions. Sheehan felt a twinge of sympathy. The poor woman is scared out her mind and she’s probably done nothing wrong. Trying to put on a welcoming expression, he indicated a chair he had placed before the desk and said, “Come on in, Mrs …em…Ms…?”

“Mrs. Bell.”

“Mrs. Bell. Please, take a seat.”

The woman edged towards the chair, sitting on the extreme front end of it, her hands now clasped in her lap. Sheehan wondered if she’d keep her balance or slide off the chair at some point during the interview. He cleared his throat. “There’s no need to be worried, Mrs. Bell. I simply want to know how you came to find the body.”

The woman’s lips moved as if she wasn’t accustomed to talking. Nothing emerged. Then she said, hesitantly, “I’m the house-keeper here. I come in three mornings a week to clean up. This is one of my days. I came in at eight o’clock this morning and…”

“Excuse me,” Sheehan interrupted her. “Ah…how did you get in?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “I came in the front door.”

“No…I mean…did someone let you in?”

“No, I have a key…two keys…one for the ordinary lock and one for the big lock.”

“A mortice lock, sir,” Doyle volunteered.

“Do you keep these keys all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In my handbag.”

“Where do you normally keep your handbag?”

“In a drawer…in my bedroom?”

“Would anyone have access to it?”

Mrs. Bell peered at him. “Em…what?”

“Can anyone ever get at your handbag apart from yourself…children in the house, perhaps?”

“On no, sir! Tommy has went away to work England and Mary’s married and living in Dungiven. I never hardly see her. Nobody else is in the house. My husband’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. All right, tell me how you found the body…take your time, no need to rush.”

“Well, I usually do the hall and the downstairs before I go up to the bedrooms. I was on’y just finished in the dining-room and I came in to do the bishop’s study and….and…”

Her face began to crumple and Sheehan said. “It’s all right, Mrs. Bell. Take your time…”

The woman composed herself and went on “I opened the door and he was …I seen him right away…I…I…was so shocked…it took the breath out of me…I couldn’t get a breath … and all I could say was ‘God save us! God save us!’ over and over again.” She stared at Sheehan, her expression confused. “On the television when they find a body they just scream and scream…but I never had the breath to make a squeak, I was that scared. I run down to the monsignor’s office to phone 999…but my hands was shaking that much I dropped the phone and I couldn’t hardly find the numbers…and I had to try again…”

It seemed that Mrs. Bell could talk very well once she got started. Sheehan raised a hand, palm outwards. “That’s okay, Mrs. Bell. Did you examine the body or touch it in any way?”

Mrs. Bell shuddered, turning to glance quickly at the space recently occupied by the body. “Good Lord, no…and him like that? I never got past the door. The second I was able to move, I was away out of there…to the monsignor’s office.”

“Who exactly is the monsignor?”

“Monsignor Byrne. He lives here, too. He’s the bishop’s secretary...but he’s not really a secretary. There’s two other secretaries works here… in the front office. They do the typing and answer the phone and…and…oh yes! One of them does receptionist duties as well. Monsignor Byrne just works along with the bishop.”

“All right! That’ll do for now. Oh, just one other thing. When was the last time you vacuumed the bishop’s study?”

“Em...this is Thursday…I work Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. ..uh… it was Monday morning.”

“Did the bishop ever do any vacuuming?”

Mrs. Bell gave him a disparaging look. “The bishop? Noooo…goodness! I get paid to do all that.”